Buried in the Backyard
by Lif61
Summary: Sam finished a hunt, and has to bury a monster with his likeness.


"I'm sorry," Sam sobbed, pushing the silver blade in deeper.

It was his own face he saw inches from his, last tears that would be shed sliding from the corners of the hazel eyes to be soaked up in the brown locks of hair. The last breath was warm upon his face amongst the cold night, and it came out as mist that was visible in the flickering, golden porchlight.

He straddled the thing, both hands on the hilt now, trying to hold himself up. Hot blood soaked out from the wound at the heart, soon getting to his thighs, and he was crying. The smoke detector still wailed inside the house, thin gray wisps traveling out through shattered windows, curtains trailing out in an attempt to escape, and the poor dog whined and barked. Sam would have to take it to a shelter. But not before… Not before…

"Sam," he breathed.

The shape-shifter that had taken his face, his body, didn't move, completely dead beneath him, body already going cold.

Something hard and heavy pulsed within Sam, and he fell off of the monster. Off of… Off of himself. It wasn't long before he was turning his head into a flower pot, nose brushing against frost-covered pansies, and he was sicking up.

And then he saw his hands, the blood, black in the night, and bright scarlet when his tortured motions made him waver into the light.

"Oh god," he breathed. "Oh god, oh god."

He went over to the body, wiping it on himself, tears pricking at his eyes, running down his cheeks. He sniffled, snot running over his bottom lip. Even the back of his nose hurt, and his throat ached.

"It's not you," he breathed. "It's not you, it's not you, it's not you."

But that face that stared up at the sky was all him. Dead, a monster, bloody, and gone from the world.

But not completely.

Sam knew what he had to do.

* * *

_Shrnngck_.

Sam's shovel drove into the earth, uncaring, while his fingers wished to tremble as they held the metal that had yet to warm from his touch.

Dig.

Or burn.

It was what you did after a fight.

This thing was no hunter.

Just a monster.

Maybe Sam was too.

So no burning for either them.

So he dug, out in the backyard of the house that the victims had lived in. They were all dead now, bodies to be taken away by the coroner whenever they showed up. Sam hadn't called the police yet, but the fight was loud, the dog was still squealing, and smoke was filtering into the sky. The smoke detector had gone dead, Sam smashing it on his way back through the house after retrieving what he needed from the trunk of the Impala. Still, neighbors talked. People got scared. Sometimes they did the right thing.

Sometimes the wrong.

Sticking around was doing the wrong thing.

Sam could just mutilate the face, be done with it.

But it was his face.

This was his mess to clean.

His phone was vibrating in his pocket.

Surely Dean for the eighth time that night.

Or Castiel. The angel had been texting him, trying to get a hit on his location.

This was Sam's job. Not theirs. A monster with his face was his business.

It was impossible to get six feet down before authorities showed up, which would cause problems later on down the years, but he'd take of it. He would. Besides, there'd be time for decay by then. And by then… maybe the decay would've been enough.

He'd be far enough away, the monstrous part of him would be gone.

This monster would be gone.

_Shrnngck_. _Shrnngck_.

Dirt flew over his shoulder, and then once more, a final scoop of earth to hide it in.

Sam dropped the shovel, breathing heavy, and he grabbed the body, rolling and shoving it. He heaved, gasping for air, sweating, covered in dirt and blood. His blood, the thing's blood, he didn't know. Maybe one and the same.

And he dumped it in.

It landed with a horrible thud that he felt in the pit of his stomach that stayed and resonated. It slopped back up into his mouth like bile, and he leaned over the pit, retching into it, sobbing again. One cheek and an eye stared up at him, clear and dead and non-judgemental.

Just nothing.

Sam cried out as he buried the face, the body, recognizing even the clothes since it'd taken some of his own. He recognized all of it. The dimples in the cheeks, the wave of hair by the forehead, the mole by the left side of the nose, the veiny hands, the torso he thought was too long, the feet that refused to fit in most normal sized shoes. All of it.

All of it.

Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam.

So he buried himself, the porchlight behind him dying, the night air chilling the blood on him.

And with dirt and blood and sweat caked to his skin, he finished the job.

He buried the monster.

Sam dropped the shovel down, no tears left, the thing buried in the backyard by the flowerbeds.


End file.
